


Manage Me

by sherlockian4evr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologetic Sherlock, But it's a low tingling along John's spine, Contract negotiations - but not BDSM - yet, Directed Self-Pleasure, Distraught Sherlock, Dom!John, Emotional Sherlock, Established Johnlock, Established Mystrade, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Incredibly slow build to BDSM, Injured John, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mycroft Approves, Mycroft observes all, Orgasms, Other non-physical punishment, Praise, Rules, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock Worries, Sherlock being polite, Sherlock cleans - sort of, Spanking, but not too badly, corner time, sub!Sherlock, trust fund, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt:</p><p>John almost dies because Sherlock runs off with John after a killer without first informing Lestrade where they where going and why. A guilt ridden Sherlock who is not use to caring and is a having a hard time dealing with feeling guilt for the first time in his life, ask John to take charge. Sherlock agrees not to do anything without Johns approval and to do whatever John tells him to.  </p><p>Not knowing how long this will last, John takes the opportunity to make sure Sherlock takes care of himself and to teach him some basic social skills/manners. Sherlock rebels but he did promise and a promise is a promise.</p><p>Beta read by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110">Sherlock1110.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You Put Me Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669919) by [Sherlock1110](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110). 



> This is a multi-chapter challenge from my beta. We hope to post weekly.

They were running down an alleyway, keeping the killer in sight. Adrenaline was pumping through their veins. Sherlock was high on the hunt and John was lividly angry with him. Still, John wouldn't leave Sherlock to chase down the killer on his own.

The killer shimmied over a fence. Without hesitation, Sherlock followed. Muttering "Can't be arsed to send Greg a bloody text, let alone call," John, too, followed suit. His shoes impacted the pavement hard as he dropped down from the top of the fence. "Damn it, Sherlock! Wait for me," John yelled fruitlessly. He had lost sight of both of the other men. Putting on a burst of speed, John pummeled down the remaining distance of the alleyway. He skidded to a halt as he rounded a corner where Sherlock had disappeared.

"Don't move," the killer called out. The killer held Sherlock and had a gun pointed at his head.

"John! There are two of them," Sherlock yelled. The killer pulled the trigger. Sherlock's eyes went wide when nothing happened. There had been a misfire; a wonderful, glorious, improbable misfire.

Sherlock threw off the killer's arm and whirled to deliver a blow to his stomach. The killer doubled over and Sherlock drove his arm down onto the back of the man's head. For added measure, he kicked the killer in the side. Taking a pair of handcuffs from the depths of his Belstaff's pocket, Sherlock made short work of cuffing the unmoving man. That job done, he whirled in search of John and the accomplice. They were engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The accomplice held a knife in his hand. He had obviously been trained in fighting techniques, because John hadn't dispatched him yet. Even as Sherlock took a step in their direction, the accomplice managed to slip the knife past John's guard. Sherlock screamed as the blade hit home. Sherlock didn't think, he simply reacted. He tackled the accomplice to the ground, blade flying free, and began bludgeoning the man repeatedly. He would likely have killed him were it not for his concern for John. As it was, the accomplice had been rendered quite unconscious.

"John," Sherlock called frantically as he rushed to John's side. "Where are you hurt?" He rucked up John's jumper and vest and ran his hands over John's torso. Sherlock was seeking the source of blood that was so alarmingly visible.

Face screwed up in pain, John tried futilely to bat Sherlock's hands away. "Sherlock, I'm okay. It's not that bad. I don't think he hit anything vital."

"You can't know that, John!" Sherlock had revealed the bloody wound in John's side. He pulled off his scarf and crammed it against the wound. "What do I do, John? Tell me!"

If John hadn't been hurting and bleeding, he would have laughed at the man. Instead he ordered, "Call 999." After a pause, he added, "You git." John took over holding the scarf to his wound, freeing Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock nodded and pulled out his mobile. With shaking fingers, he dialed 999 and reported the details of John's wound, their location and, at the dispatcher's coaching, what had taken place. The dispatcher then asked him to stay on the line, so he put the call on speaker and dropped the phone.

"I'm sorry, John. This is all my fault. You can't die on me." Sherlock was babbling.

John scooted closer to the wall nearest him and leaned against it. "I'm not going to die," he reassured his friend. "So stop it with the dramatics."

Footsteps came pounding down the alley. Both men looked up to see DI Lestrade running towards them, paramedics in tow and lights flashing in the distance.

"John," Lestrade panted, "What happened?"

Forcing a painful smile onto his face, John replied, "The genius here didn't bother to call for backup and..." He raised one bloody hand in a tired wave. "Got 'em, though. How'd you hear about this?"

Lestrade looked at the two criminals and suppressed a grin at their sorry state. "Apparently your names are tagged at dispatch. A call comes in on one of you, and I get notified." He grinned broadly. "Lucky me."

Donovan was making her way down the alley with even more paramedics. "Oi! Sally. Follow along with those two," here Lestrade indicated the criminals, "and I'll follow behind the dynamic duo, here."

When the paramedics had checked John over, they helped him into the ambulance before climbing in themselves. Sherlock clambered into the ambulance behind them with such a glare on his face that no one tried to stop him. The ride to A&E was uneventful so there was nothing to distract Sherlock from the cloud of guilt that hung over him. At A&E, John was hustled away, leaving Sherlock to wallow even deeper into a guilt-ridden morass.

Lestrade walked up to where Sherlock was pacing. He regarded his friend with concern. If possible, Sherlock was even paler than normal. "He'll be fine. You know that. If he had been hurt badly, he wouldn't have got into the ambulance under his own power."

"It's a stab wound," Sherlock spat. "There's nothing 'fine' about a stab wound."

Lestrade sighed, shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head. There was simply no talking to Sherlock when John had been hurt. He decided to simply wait it out and sat.

Sherlock kept pacing.

Some time later, John came walking back out to where they waited. His clothes would be gracing the bin as soon as he got home and he looked drawn and exhausted, but he was under his own power. John clenched his discharge papers in one hand as he spoke tiredly, "Thanks for babysitting, Greg. He probably would have been kicked out by now if you hadn't."

"I don't know, John. Your toddler's been sulking, but he's kept it mostly to himself," Greg replied with a smile.

Naturally, Sherlock had bristled at being called a toddler. "You needn't have waited," Sherlock directed at Lestrade. "Your company was neither wanted nor required."

At Lestrade's hurt glower, John admonished, "Shut it. Greg stayed because he's our friend and, God alone knows why, but he cares about you almost as much as I do. Greg deserves your appreciation and respect."

When Sherlock uttered, "Apologies, Lestrade. Thank you for staying," both John and Lestrade gaped.

"You're welcome," came Lestrade's shocked reply. "I guess you'll want to be getting home," he directed at John. "Statements can wait until tomorrow, but don't drag it into the evening. I want to see you both before noon."

"Ta for that, Greg. Right now I just want to get home and get some rest." John looked at Sherlock who still appeared suitably admonished. "Let's go, then."

With that, John and Sherlock made their way to the kerb outside only to be meet by an ubiquitous black sedan. Sherlock didn't even grimace, just climbed into the back seat. John joined him, leaning back heavily against the leather upholstery.

"What's got into you," John asked. "I've never known you to get into one of Mycroft's cars without complaint."

Sherlock looked down at his hands, feeling ill to his stomach. "I told you before. This was my fault."

"These things happen, Sherlock. What we do is dangerous. We're going to get hurt from time to time. It really isn't your fault."

Sherlock looked on the verge of honest to God tears. "That's not what you said earlier."

"What?" John racked his brain, trying to think what Sherlock could be referring to.

Sherlock's voice cracked uncharacteristically. "You said 'The genius here didn't bother to call for backup.'"

John felt like the world's biggest prick. He was sitting with his unwounded side facing Sherlock, which was a good thing since he pulled Sherlock into a rough embrace. "Oh, Sherlock. That was a very bad joke on my part. It really, really wasn't your fault. I could have contacted Greg myself. I didn't."

Now tears and snot were staining Sherlock's face because, once he grabbed onto an idea, he rarely let it go. He didn't let it go this time. "If you had died, it would have been my fault, John. I'm irresponsible. I act without thinking. I put you at risk. I... I can't live this way, putting you in danger. I think it would be best if we..."

John's heart had lept into his throat. Sherlock was breaking up with him. "No, Sherlock. Please don't," John pleaded.

Sherlock swallowed a sob. "Let me finish, John. I was saying that we should have rules in place."

John heaved a sigh of relief. "Okay... What do you have in mind?"

"I'm not entirely certain," Sherlock admitted, "but I think, at the very least, you should take charge. I'll do whatever you tell me to. I'll defer to your good judgement in all things."

"That's utterly ridiculous. I trust you, Sherlock and it's simply not necessary," John reassured.

Sherlock shouted, "Yes it is!" Then more calmly, he continued, "This is my promise, John, my vow. I'll obey you in all things."

Most of John was appalled and was sure that nothing good could come of this, but a tiny part of him did a little tap dance. He could use this to ensure that Sherlock took care of himself. John might even be able to instill some manners into Sherlock.

Another long sniff from Sherlock brought John's attention back to the man. John felt like an arse. Sherlock was hurting. That was unacceptable. "Whatever you need, Sherlock. I'll take care of you." Now if they could just get back to the flat. John didn't feel that great himself.


	2. Chapter 2

John hung up his coat then stood in the living room of 221B, torn as to his next action. What did he want most: to get clean, eat or simply collapse in his chair and drift off to sleep while watching crap telly? He moved to run his hand through his hair and caught a glimpse of lingering blood under his nails. Decision made. "Sherlock, I'm going to get cleaned up."

From behind him, Sherlock said, "John..." then broke off. He was certain that John shouldn't get the wound wet, but he didn't feel that it was his place to speak. Not now. Not after making his pledge to John. In fact he was at a loss as to what to do with himself, so he just stood there.

At Sherlock's broken sentence, John turned. One look at the other man let him know that Sherlock had truly meant what he had said earlier and, fuck, but John was too tired for this. He bloody well hurt. Still, Sherlock had had a fright, as hard as that was to imagine. If they could just get through the next few hours until John had got some rest, then they could deal with this.

"Look, Sherlock, I'll just be gone for a few minutes. I won't get the wound wet. I know that's what you are worried about. I just want to get the blood off as best I can and change into something that's not fit for the bin." John noted Sherlock's attentive gaze. "If you need me to tell you what to do, then order something for us to eat, enough for two people, mind you. Clear off the table so there'll be a place for us to eat and make sure we won't get poisoned eating there. That should keep you busy until I get back."

Sherlock went into action, still wearing his Belstaff.

John sighed inwardly. If this was a sign of things to come, he wasn't entirely certain that he could handle it. "Um, Sherlock," John suggested, "You might want to take off your coat first. And hang it up." John added that last part for good measure then headed down the hall to get clean.

Sherlock had pulled out their stack of takeaway menus and was flipping through them one by one. Choosing one was proving to be difficult. It shouldn't be. Why was this so hard? Because John was supposed to tell him what to do, but John had done that. John had told Sherlock to order something for them to eat. He picked a menu at random. They would be having Japanese. Sherlock called and placed an order for two combo dinners: scallop teriyaki and beef teriyaki. That done, he turned to the table. It really wasn't that bad and he wasn't in the middle of an experiment for once. He scooped the flasks, beakers, Petri Dishes and other glassware up and placed them into the sink. The microscope and Bunsen Burner went onto the worktop. The chemicals and remaining detritus went under the sink. Fortunately, his last experiment hadn't involved anything toxic or too stomach churning, but for John's sake, he washed the table's surface thoroughly then did it once again.

Sherlock's timing was perfect, for it was then that John emerged clean and dressed in his most tatty, comfortable pyjamas. John took in the clean table and smiled. Sherlock beamed. John saw the cluttered sink and scowled. Sherlock ducked his head and scuffed his shoe against the floor. No one would believe John if he described this strange version of Sherlock Holmes. Of course, John would never tell a soul and he hoped that no one ever had the chance to see it for themselves. "You did great, Sherlock. You did just what I said. The table is clear and ready for us to eat." Sherlock was beaming again.

John went and sat in his chair with a sigh. His side was hurting, but not bad enough yet to justify taking another painkiller. He closed his eyes and rested. It wasn't long before he became aware of restless movements coming from the direction of Sherlock's chair. John cracked his eyes open. Sherlock was sat with his leg bouncing furiously and his fingers tapping on the arm of his chair. "For goodness sakes, Sherlock, do something," John said with exasperation.

"But John," Sherlock whined, "you haven't told me what to do."

This was getting ridiculous. John couldn't orchestrate every moment of Sherlock's life. He would figure something out later. For now... John reached for the first thing that came to mind. "Play your violin, Sherlock. I said play it, not torture it. If you want rules, then make this your first one: Sherlock Holmes is forbidden to torture his violin." John gave a self-satisfied nod of his head. Then closed his eyes in preparation to listen to his one true love make magic happen with his violin.

Sherlock didn't disappoint. He never did when he actually deigned to play. Sherlock was a true virtuoso. It was just as much a pleasure for Sherlock to play as it was for those who were privileged to listen. Sherlock was able to lose himself in the rise and fall of rapid runs. He could forget his concerns and doubts amidst the complex fingerings. The attention he paid to the varying dynamics and tempo brought his soul in line with the composer's intent. It would be no hardship to forgo torturing his beloved instrument. Especially when he looked at John and saw such a look of peace as he was wearing now. Sherlock could always find another way to irritate Mycroft, if John let him. John had to let him! That line of thought was cut off by a buzz at the door.

John groaned. "I just can't. You'll have to get it. Don't bother complaining," John warned.

"I wasn't going to," Sherlock groused. 'I said I would do whatever you told me to. I promised John." His bottom lip had popped out. John decided not to comment on it.

"Right. But you're going to be nice. That's another rule. You are to be polite to anyone delivering food to our door. You are not to deduce them, be rude to them or intimidate them in any way." John dredged up a smile to take the sting out of his words. The door buzzed again. "Now off with you."

Sherlock restrained himself from stomping down the stairs. Why did he have to be nice to perfect strangers and why couldn't he have a bit of fun deducing them? Sherlock opened the door, plastered on a smile and positively bit his tongue to keep from spouting out that the young man's girlfriend was cheating on him with an older man and a younger woman, that he would do better to forget his aspirations of finding fortune as an artist and should put forth more effort in his studies and, oh yes, that piercing should really be removed because the infection wouldn't improve until it had been. Somehow Sherlock made it through the transaction without saying any of those things. He even managed a "Good day" before closing the door to 221. It was much more difficult not to stomp back up the stairs, but he managed it. How did people go through life being polite? It was so tedious.

John turned his head to regard Sherlock as he entered the flat. "How'd it go?"

Sherlock's irritation showed and he answered just short of polite, "I was the very picture of civility, as you required."

"Just as I..." John wasn't too tired to get angry. "Listen, you great berk, you're the one who asked, no begged, for me to tell you what to do. I wasn't happy doing that, but I did. I'll be more than happy to stop."

Going pale, Sherlock fairly flew to John's side, dropping the bags of food to the floor as he went. "I'm sorry, John. Please, please. Don't give up on me. I need you to tell me what to do. Maybe not forever, but until I can trust myself again."

"Alright," John agreed. He always agreed. "But after we salvage our food and eat, we're making a list of rules. I can't micromanage you, Love, so we're going to find another way." If they didn't, John just might go mad.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock glared at his food while John tucked into his beef teriyaki. John's eyes nearly rolled back in pleasure as he savoured the taste. A bite of sticky rice had made it halfway to John's mouth when he paused in eating.

"Sherlock, you have got to eat something," John complained. He received a glare for his trouble. If that's how Sherlock wanted to play this, then it was fine with John. "Right, then. You will drink the miso soup, eat at least half of the rice and all of the scallops. I don't care if you eat the salad or not." Sherlock's scowl smoothed itself and he began eating. John felt an odd warmth spread through him at the sight. He felt the tiniest bit less exhausted and maybe, if he admitted it to himself, somewhat aroused. John gave himself a small shake. This control that Sherlock had given him had nothing to do with sex and even if it had, John was really not up for that right now. Oh, his mind was willing, it always willing when it came to Sherlock, but until he got some rest, his body was definitely weak.

They ate in silence, which was fine with John. He was busy trying to make a mental list of rules that would satisfy Sherlock, at least until the morrow. John noticed when Sherlock finished eating and spoke words that surprised himself, "That's my good lad. Thank you." John blushed in embarrassment, expecting to be the recipient of one of Sherlock's scathing remarks, but it never came. Instead, Sherlock almost... preened under the praise just as if John had called him amazing. Thoughtfully, John took his time and finished his beef teriyaki and the last of his rice. There were definite implications that would be worth thinking about. Later.

John cleared away the debris from their meal, then made tea. He had a feeling that he would be needing it for this conversation. John placed Sherlock's cup of tea in front of him on the table, then took a seat. Lifting his tea to his lips, John sipped at it. He sat the cup down, straightened his back and began, "You're afraid. I get that." Sherlock started to object, but John didn't give him the chance. "I promised to do whatever you need and you seem to need this. So," here John paused, "we're going to write out a contract. It will detail the rules for your expected behaviour and consequences." John forestalled Sherlock's objection with a raised hand. "I think you'll agree that rules with no method of enforcement are completely pointless."

Sherlock sucked in his bottom lip and bit it before giving a reluctant nod. He hadn't counted on this turn of events, but John never did anything by halves. That was one reason that Sherlock trusted John with this. That and the fact that John unquestioningly loved him.

At Sherlock's acquiescence, John fetched his laptop from where Sherlock had left it. That was one habit that would definitely be addressed in their contract. Sherlock's fingers twitched as John sat and put the laptop on the table. The doctor chuckled and slid the laptop across the table where Sherlock caught it with eager hands. "Go ahead. I know I don't type fast enough for you."

"Mmm, yes. At thirty words per minute, it's amazing that you are so prolific with that ridiculous blog of yours." Sherlock's small smile belied the harshness of his words. He opened Word and typed BEHAVIOUR CONTRACT as the title and the simple word RULES as the first heading beneath it.

John's tongue darted out briefly before he spoke. He would start with the less esoteric of the rules. "First rule..."

"Third," Sherlock corrected.

John sighed a sigh of the long suffering. "The first rule for the contract, then. Type this: Sherlock will not lie."

Sherlock's fingers didn't move. Not one millimetre. "John, don't be dull. You know that I have to," here Sherlock waved one graceful hand in the air, "prevaricate on occasion. The Work requires it."

"The Work," John's made air quotes that positively flashed in neon, "may require it, but you'll not lie to me or Lestrade or even your brother. Well, maybe your brother, but you had better be sure that I agree it was necessary."

That last concession mollified Sherlock and he quickly typed the modified rule. "Next," he rumbled. John leaned back, rubbing his hand along his injured side. Sherlock frowned with concern and realised that he was being selfish. "This can wait until tomorrow, John."

"I'm fine. Besides," John offered a rueful smile, "if we don't do this, you won't sleep tonight and I'm not having that. Next rule: Sherlock will treat people with respect. All people. Unless they insult or attack him first. That means no deducing them, being rude to them or intimidating them in any way unless it is damned well necessary for a case and I had better agree to that as well."

Even as Sherlock typed, he complained, “I'm hardly a child. You can leave off the 'Sherlock will' for the duration."

John's mouth twitched up to the right and his nostril flared as he inhaled sharply in irritation. He didn't want to change Sherlock, not really, but honestly! The rule that had just been established was about respect. "Sherlock!"

"What," Sherlock asked blandly.

"I'm a person too. And don't give me 'obviously', because even I deserve just a modicum of respect." Now John's head was throbbing. They really needed to get through this sooner rather than later. At least Sherlock did him the courtesy to look ever so slightly abashed. "Right. Moving on then. You will respect other' people's property. That means you ask before using my laptop, by the way. You will tell someone before you go haring off after some clue or suspect. Not just that you are going, but where and how you can be contacted."

Sherlock's fingers were flying and he had made surprisingly few arguments about the rules up to this point. John was certain that that was about to change.

John continued, "You will put things away that you take out. That includes the odd experiment, eyeball, liver. Whatever." Sherlock's mouth made a little moue of distaste, but he still hadn't complained, yet, so John continued. "You will eat what I say, where I say and when I say it."

Sherlock straightened and slapped his hands on the table. "I don't see how that rule serves my original purpose. I don't need a keeper."

"Actually, that's exactly what you've asked me to be and as I love you, ridiculous man that you are, that's what I'll be. At least until you come to your senses. Have you?" John waited, but got no response. "I didn't think so. You will get at least five hours sleep each night. You will assist with the laundry, dishes, shopping, and cooking. All as needed. And finally," John was standing by this, selfishly, for his own sanity, "You will not torture your violin." John crossed his arm over his chest as if daring Sherlock to comment. “Good. Now I know that I promised consequences, but I’m completely knackered. Let’s go to bed and finish this in the morning.” Much to his surprise, Sherlock agreed and followed him to their bedroom. John climbed beneath the covers and, once Sherlock’s lanky form was wrapped around him, he fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

The alarm sounded from the clock on the bedside table. John fumbled for it without looking and couldn't seem to find the off switch. Finally, completely annoyed by the alarm's blaring, he knocked the clock to the floor. The move was very Sherlockianesque, but he couldn't be arsed to care in the blessed silence. John had set the alarm for 9.00. How could it be 9.00 already? He flung one arm up over his eyes and moaned. If they were to get to NSY before noon, he had best get moving. He didn't.

The bedroom door cracked open then swung wide. Sherlock crept over next to the bed then sank down onto his knees next to it. He rested his chin on the mattress, only a few centimetres from John, and stared at him: kind, loving, wonderful John. Sherlock felt a lump rise in his throat and swallowed it down. He couldn't loose John.

"Sherlock," John asked. He could feel eyes on him. Sherlock made a humming sound. "Are you seriously kneeling on the floor, staring at me?"

"I didn't want to loom, John," Sherlock huffed. "That would be rude."

John laughed softly. "That's actually considerate." He grinned then continued, "And rather sweet." That was, after the creepiness factor had been subtracted for being stared at over the edge of the bed.

Sherlock bristled. "I'm not 'sweet'."  
"Cute, then," came John's reply. He dropped his arm to his side on the mattress and turned to look fondly at Sherlock. He laughed again at the look on his face. It was a full, hearty laugh this time. Sherlock jumped to his feet in annoyance.

"That's not an insult, Love," John said, sitting up and hanging his legs over the edge of the bed. His side hurt, sharp and cruel, and he let out a small groan. Sherlock's breath caught and he shot out of the room.

"Sherlock! Wait," John called. He scrubbed his face with his hands. Just as he was debating going after Sherlock, the man returned with a glass of water and a prescription pain reliever in his hands. "Oh, ta." He took them both and swallowed down the pill then made short work of the water. "Have you eaten yet," he asked.

Sherlock looked down sheepishly and gave his head a small shake. "No," he replied. It had come out as barely a whisper.

The morning had got far too serious, far too fast for John's taste. He stood carefully so as not to aggravate his wound and took Sherlock into his arms. He held him for several long moments then pulled back and gave him a kiss. Slowly, at first, Sherlock responded. The kiss grew heated rapidly. Their tongues twisted together and their hands roved madly over shoulders and backs. John broke off the kiss and stepped back, regretfully - Greg was expecting them before noon. "Better," John asked. He was rewarded with a small, pleased smile from Sherlock. "Good, then. I'm getting a proper shower. Would you help me tape this?" He gestured to his side. "So I can keep it dry."

"Of course," came Sherlock's reply.

They relocated to the loo where Sherlock made quick work of covering John's wound with plastic and tape. It would stay nicely dry while John showered.

John thought of yesterday and how Sherlock had reacted to his praise. He was much more clear headed this morning, so he took out the implications of Sherlock's reactions and examined them. Sherlock had always fed on John's praise, there was nothing new about that, but yesterday had been different. Hadn't it? Sherlock's reaction had been more visceral, almost... He gave his head a shake then regarded Sherlock thoughtfully as the other man put up the leftover supplies. "Good job, Love. You did so very, very good." John added a small caress of Sherlock's back to his words. He smiled at the small gasp that escaped Sherlock's lips.

"I'll..." Sherlock blushed as his voice cracked. He tried again. "I'll cook breakfast, if you like," he offered.

"That would be wonderful." John placed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Run along. I'll join you directly." Perhaps he could use this new development to help with reigning Sherlock in. He could use praise as reward and... He would have to think about consequences today. John hummed happily as he got into the shower. Sherlock had looked lovely blushing under his praise. If John's shower took longer than normal, well, he could always blame his injury.

They ate breakfast. Sherlock actually put away an egg along with his toast. He glanced at John, asking silently if he had eaten enough.

"You're being so good for me. You've eaten plenty."

Standing, Sherlock cleared the table and started washing the dishes without being asked. John glanced at his watch. The morning had been rushing by far too fast. "Go get dressed. Ill finish cleaning."

"But, John. You said that I was to help with the cleaning. You mentioned dishes, specifically." Sherlock's nose was crinkled in puzzlement.

"I know I did, but we don't want to keep Greg waiting." Sherlock's face broke into a pout and John sighed. "He asked us to come in before noon. "I'm fairly sure he didn't mean 11.59." That statement was met with a Sherlockian eye roll. Good. Sherlock was still in there.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped. He stalked off to get dressed.

John reflected that this might be more difficult than he expected. Just where was the line between a bit of Sherlockian brusqueness and disrespect? John didn’t want to break Sherlock, just mould him a bit. More thought was required, so he began to think. John thought while he finished the dishes. He thought on the way to NSY. He thought all the way to Greg's office where the blinds were closed, but the door was ajar. Just as John reached to give a brief knock, Sherlock whirled and headed back the way they had come. "Oi," John called.

Without stopping, Sherlock spat out, "Mycroft!"

"Get back here, you prat." John waited expectantly as Sherlock took two more stuttering steps. He straightened to his full height, maintained it for a moment, then bowed his head before stalking back to John's side. Greg called out for them to enter at John's knock and he gestured Sherlock forward.

Mycroft was sat in a chair next to Greg behind his desk. Both men's lips were red and swollen. Sherlock growled. "Really, brother dear. It's bad enough that I have nightmares about what you two get up to in the dark hours of the night, now I have to endure your presence and," he gave a dramatic shudder, "'snogging' here where I work." Sherlock threw himself onto the remaining free chair and crossed his arms petulantly.

"Sherlock," John warned.

"I believe this is my office," Greg complained good-naturedly.

Mycroft shot Sherlock a sly smile. "Good morning, baby brother, John." He turned his gaze on John. "I trust you're doing well?"

"You don't care, Mycroft. Don't pretend that you do." Sherlock sounded hateful and the glare that he directed at Mycroft was withering.

"Enough," John snapped, "Sherlock! Apologise."

Sherlock sat up tall, looking extremely put-on. "But, John," he whinged.

"If you can't manage to show respect to your brother, you can, at the very least, be polite." Had Mycroft been condescending or even hinted at an effort to deride Sherlock, John wouldn't have said a word, but the man had been civil. Sherlock could manage to do the same.

Eyes wide, pupils blown and pulse unexpectedly accelerating, Sherlock very plainly said, "I do apologise, Mycroft. Please forgive me for my rudeness."

Greg gaped. Mycroft looked from his brother back to John. Well, what an interesting turn of events this was. He suppressed a smile. It wouldn't do for him to give away his thoughts to his brother. If he did, Sherlock would very likely abandon the whole thing and that would be disastrous. A little power play, the judicious application of palm to arse, abundant praise and all of the love that John had to give just might instill a bit of responsibility into his brother. It might extend his life as well. Mycroft was careful to keep his tone neutral. "Of course, Sherlock. I have forgotten it already."

The atmosphere was decidedly awkward. Greg spoke into the silence, "Right, then. I have the paperwork ready for you." He started to rise, "I'll just fetch another chair."

Mycroft placed a hand on a Greg's arm. "No need, Gregory. I really must be going."

Greg changed trajectory as he continued to stand and dropped a kiss to Mycroft's cheek. "Let me know if you'll be late, Mycroft, and if I need to buy those supplies for the coming zombie apocalypse." It was a running joke between them.

Mycroft gave him a small smile. Why Greg wanted to watch those horrid zombie shows, he would never understand, but neither would he complain; at least not much and never in front of John and Sherlock.

As Mycroft left, John grabbed the paperwork and pulled the now vacant chair around to sit by Sherklock. They got to work. Neither man was able to concentrate fully. They both knew that there was something new blooming between them. Neither had any idea what it meant or where it would lead. In the way of things, it would take time for them to truly understand; however, it wouldn't take nearly as long as they thought. In fact, things would start to become very clear in just a few short hours and it would be magnificent.


	5. Chapter 5

John had decided how he would handle Sherlock on the way back to the flat. As soon as Sherlock whipped off his scarf and hung it, along with his Belstaff, John spoke, "To the corner with you, then. Think about what you said to Mycroft and why it was wrong."

Sherlock whipped about and glared at John. "No." John drew himself up to his full height and pointed towards the corner. In reaction, Sherlock stomped his foot and complained, "I'm hardly a child, John." Without saying a word, John dropped his eyes to peer at Sherlock's foot. When he looked back up, Sherlock had gone red with embarrassment. "Fine," Sherlock spat. He stepped up and over the coffee table, down onto a short stack of books and stopped with his nose pressed into the corner.

John felt a tingle along his spine that he ruthlessly suppressed. This was about helping Sherlock by providing boundaries and structure. This wasn't about sex, no matter what John might wish. Sherlock had never expressed an interest in those types of games. John considered, praise was due and if that spilled over into something sexual later, well, he could work with that. He walked over to where Sherlock stood, moving around the coffee table and stack of books. Reaching out, he stroked down Sherlock's spine and spoke softly and warmly, "It's not so hard, is it? You're being my good boy, standing here like I asked. Thinking quietly. My good, beautiful boy."

Sherlock's shoulders started shaking. The tremors moved outward until his entire body was quaking. Ever so slowly, he felt his legs changing to rubber and he sank to his knees. A low groan escaped his lips and he felt oddly disoriented by the aching need in his groin. Sherlock felt his face flush. He didn't want John to see. They might be lovers and John had always understood about his peculiarities, but surely getting aroused by being bossed around, put in a corner and offered a few words of praise would make even John call him a freak.

"Sherlock, Love, are you alright?" John asked with concern. 

"Fine," Sherlock muttered even as he shook his head in negation.

John frowned at Sherlock's answer, not knowing whether to believe his spoken word or his silent gesture. Reaching out, he gently grasped the other man's arm and turned him so that he could see Sherlock's face. Distress was written large across Sherlock's features. "Christ! This was a bad idea. Up with you, now." John urged Sherlock to his feet, but the other man refused to be moved.

Sherlock placed an elegant hand over John's where it held his arm. John's obvious concern and characteristic caring only served to intensify his embarrassment, but he couldn't let John worry, not over something that he had misunderstood. "John," Sherlock breathed, "I'm fine." He used his grasp on John's hand to move it to his chest where he slid it down his torso and over his erection. At John's small gasp, Sherlock forced himself to meet his lover's eyes. 

A slow smile crept onto John's face, his eyes lightning with both amusement and undisguised lust. "Well, this is a turn up." He moved his hand to Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock's eyes had shut tightly closed. "It's okay, Love. You don't have to hide this from me."

One shuddering breath later, Sherlock opened his eyes. He looked at John and observed. There was absolutely no disgust on John's face, but there was... interest... curiosity... arousal? Oh! Relief washed through him and John saw it.

John's smile broke into a broad grin. "S'okay?"

Sherlock nodded emphatically then he added, "Yes, John. More than okay," for good measure.

All thought of the how and why they had arrived at this point was long forgotten. The only thing that mattered to either man was what was about to happen next.

John had to clear his throat as it was tight with anticipation. "What do you want, Sherlock? Tell me." Sherlock's lips parted and his tongue dipped out in a quick flick to moisten them. God, he was so beautiful! "Tell me," John repeated more sternly.

Sherlock shivered. "I want... what you want." John frowned and Sherlock rushed to clarify, " What you did, ordering me into the corner and telling me that I was good." He took a deep, steadying breath, "That. I want more of that." His voice broke, the desperation and want almost overwhelming him. "Tell me what to do, John. I'm already yours, I always have been, I always will be, but I want to feel owned. Show me that I will do anything for you, that I'll be anything. Take me apart, John, and only put me back together when you're done with me. I only want to breathe if you want it. I only want to feel what you want me to feel. I want it all and always and... just everything and only for you." His rampant flow of words surprised both men, but hearing them, Sherlock suddenly understood what it was that he truly wanted. That knowledge was incredibly overwhelming, as was the knowledge that he had actually given voice to those desires. Still, he wouldn't retract his words. He couldn't. 

John stood and took a step back, overwhelmed himself. "Jesus!" There was so much that they needed to talk about; limits to set and they would need a safe word, wouldn't they? That could wait, though. This needed to be acted on and acted on now. "Bedroom, Sherlock. Now." John let his desire shown on his face and in his mannerisms. "Strip and wait for me on the bed," he growled, voice low and dangerous.

Just hearing John sound so forceful and hearing it directed at him made a warm heat traverse Sherlock's body. He stood, somehow maintaining his usual grace, and dipped his head as he acknowledged, "Yes, John." Just how Sherlock managed to make it to their room and do what John had commanded would forever remain one of the few mysteries that he would never solve. The fact remained that he did it and now he was waiting on the bed, trembling and aching with need. There was a desperate sound echoing in the room. "John, John, John," repeated over and over. It was his own deep voice. Sherlock tried to stop, but couldn't. "John, John, John." What was happening to him? "John, John, John." The soft, gentle sounds of bare feet whispered to Sherlock as John entered the room, but he didn't react. He couldn't, not without being told what to do.

John had heard of subspace. He had even seen it once before on a case when they had gone to a BDSM club to perform reconnaissance and conduct interviews. That memory gave John a jolt. Why hadn't that case revealed their individual kinks? Perhaps because they hadn't been intimate at the time? He shook his head. It didn't matter. What did matter was that he knew what he was seeing in Sherlock's behaviour: a sub well into subspace and only from a few very simple orders. John would have to be very careful with Sherlock. He wouldn't do anything to his sub (His sub!) that he didn't know Sherlock liked, though he would couch his requests as orders and he would use just a bit of force. Just a bit. He would hold Sherlock down, take his wrists in his hands, spread those pale thighs with his knee. Surely that would be okay? It had to be okay because his cock was throbbing with desire at the thought.

"I want you on your back, hands above your head, legs spread wide." John's orders were clear and clipped and Sherlock complied gratefully. "Wider," John ordered and Sherlock spread his thighs achingly wide. "You beautiful, gorgeous creature," came John's fervent words of praise. "I'm going to fuck you and break you and cradle your pieces to my heart."

Sherlock pressed his face into his arm, overwhelmed and reduced to a waiting, wanting mess. "John, John, John, yes, John." The warm press of John's hand against his abdomen caused his muscles to judder and he scrambled with his fingers to maintain his hold on the headboard. He didn't understand why John's touch felt so different this time, nor could he understand his absolute lack of volition. Sherlock was a vessel waiting to be filled. He was a thing with no purpose beyond what John deigned to give him. He was a receptacle for sensation. God, he was alive!


	6. Chapter 6

John didn’t like pain, but he was more than familiar with it. In fact, he was intimate with agony. When he sat on the edge of the bed, hand pressed against Sherlock's pale flesh, the wound in his side made itself known. It had twinged as he knelt by Sherlock in the corner and again as he stood and ordered Sherlock to their room. He huffed out a breath and, with skill that had been gained through countless hours of physical therapy, acknowledged the pain as the simple warning it was: be careful, do no harm. That done, he shoved the pain away and concentrated his attention on Sherlock once more. 

John could feel the juddering of Sherlock's muscles beneath his hand and he watched their quaking with fascination. Sherlock's cock was full and flushed a darker hue than the rest of him. It gave a small series of twitches and shifted slightly until it bumped the edge of John's hand. There was a clear drop of glistening precome at the tip. John lifted his hand and shifted it ever so slightly before taking Sherlock's cock in hand. He let his forefinger glide over the tip, smearing the drop over its head. Sherlock's chanting of "John, John, John" broke off only to be replaced by low needy little moans.

Moving slowly, deliberately, John climbed onto the bed. Still clothed, he straddled Sherlock's left thigh. He shifted up a bit and pressed his knee against Sherlock's bollocks, a bit more and his knee slid beneath them, pressing against his perineum and the underside of his arse. Sherlock's fingers flexed on the headboard and he keened. "Christ," John spoke with wonder, "How long must you have needed this?" His jeans had grown far too confining, so he unfastened his flies and released his cock from its confines. Sherlock gave a wanton groan and John continued, "How long have I?"

Sherlock didn’t register John's words, but their tone stroked the threads of his heart and he wanted more of them. He felt it as John shifted and ran his hands up his torso. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's sides and swiped his thumbs over his nipples one, two, three times and they peaked into hard nubs of sensation. Sherlock let out a breathy little cry of "John".

Sherlock was so far under. John needed to see his eyes. He needed to know that this was still okay. "Open you eyes, Love. Look at me," John ordered.

Slowly, Sherlock did. His eyes were out of focus, at first, then they slowly found John's face. There was another broken "John" and Sherlock writhed.

John wasn't able to do much from this position, not with his wound, so he needed to reposition Sherlock. He ordered, "Let go of the headboard."

Sherlock peeled his fingers loose and flexed them.

"You're doing so good for me, you mad, beautiful thing." John shifted and climbed off of Sherlock's thigh. 

Sherlock didn't like that, the loss of contact, so he gave a small cry of protest.

"It's okay. I'm right here," John reassured him. "I need you to kneel up for me."

Sherlock was unsteady, but he complied.

"Yes, just like that," John affirmed. "Now spread you legs. Wider. Yes. Rest back on your heels. Good boy."

It was so easy to do as John said. Sherlock didn't have to think, just do and feel.

John took a minute to drink in the sight before him. Sherlock was trembling, but holding his pose beautifully. "Touch yourself, Sherlock. Let me see."

Sherlock's hands moved, then faltered. John would have to be more specific. "Bring you right hand to your nipple and tease it." 

This time Sherlock's motions were assured. He pinched his nipple between forefinger and thumb. He gave it a little twist then stretched it.

"Now the other," John urged.

Sherlock's other nipple received the same treatment.

"Keep it up, Love. Tease them both."  
Sherlock panted, imagining that it was John's hand touching him.

"Now let your other hand drop down there and fondle yourself."

At the first touch, Sherlock moaned. He kneaded his balls then stroked his cock a few times, alternating the motions.

John's tongue flicked out and swept over his bottom lip. He moved to kneel in front of Sherlock. "How does it feel? Tell me."

Sherlock's lips parted and he huffed a breath. "It feels like you are touching me. I can feel your hands moving over my skin. These hands..." Sherlock moaned. "These hands are your hands."

John leaned in and placed a kiss just below the curve of his ear. "What else, Sherlock?"

"Every muscle in my body craves for release. They're p... Poised, ready to go taut." Sherlock had to pause to breathe. John was still kissing and sucking on his neck. "There's heat, incredible heat. Please..."

John could feel the tension that Sherlock described in the quivering muscles under his lips. It was almost too much for John, having Sherlock in such a state of need. He raised his hands to Sherlock's shoulders. "Tell me. "What do you need?"

He needed John. "You. Just you. Please. Touch me, John, with your own, true hands."

John wrapped one arm around Sherlock and pulled their chests together. He continued to work at Sherlock's neck. His kisses were frantic, bruising. When he reached between them to grasp Sherlock's cock, he brushed his own and it was almost too much. He stroked Sherlock's length, causing him to thrust his hips. "That's it," he breathed, "Let me feel you come. Come for me, my mad genius."

Sherlock's mind went blank and his muscles juddered. The orgasm that swept through him wiped away his awareness and he didn't feel the hot splash of John's release coating his belly alongside his own. He went limp, his weight falling on John.

John concentrated on breathing, easing Sherlock to the bed, and ignoring the sudden, insistent pain in his side. When he had Sherlock safely cocooned in the covers, belly still sticky with come, John looked down to examine his wound. It throbbed and stung and there was the smallest bit of blood, but by some miracle, he hadn't pulled the stitches. Too wonderfully exhausted to climb from the bed, he shoved away the pain rather than fetching his pain killers. Lying down, he brought one hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek and ran his thumb lightly over the smooth ridge of his cheekbone. "I love you, you mad thing," he said, his voice soft and tender.

Sherlock's eyes cracked open and he smiled. "I... I Love you too, John. I do. I do. I do." He was floating and all he could feel was that love.

"I know," came John's simple reply and it was enough.


	7. Chapter 7

John looked at the list he'd made and gave a curt nod. He didn't think Sherlock would like anything on the list. That was the whole point, of course. He had promised his boyfriend that be would keep him in line and that meant there had to be consequences when rules were broken.

The detective breezed into the living room. He was wearing nothing more than his pyjama bottoms and dressing gown. He went immediately to his chair and sat, picking up the mug of coffee John had sat there a few minutes ago and drinking. Sherlock's toes wriggled in pleasure as the first effects of caffeine hit his system.

John folded the sheet of paper he had written his list on into a paper airplane and flew it towards the detective's who caught it deftly in midair.

Unfolding the paper, Sherlock's face scrunched up in distaste as he read John's doctorly scrawl.

CONSEQUENCES   
Corner time  
Extra chores  
Spanking  
Electronics lockdown  
House arrest

"John, you have to be joking. Spanking? Corner time? All of these things." Sherlock waved the paper in the air. "Do you honestly think they are appropriate? What is electronics lockdown anyway?"

"Yes, they are appropriate and that's when you give me your mobile and laptop for a specified length of time." John sipped his tea, waiting for the explosion.

Sherlock didn't explode. He simply tore the paper in two and tossed the pieces aside. His toes kept wriggling as he waited for John's response.

The doctor nodded and sipped his tea. "Then we're done with this arrangement. That's fine. We'll go back to how things were." He sipped his tea and picked up the paper, hiding his smile behind it.

A surprising 14 minutes passed before Sherlock broke. "Fine. The consequences can stay and the rest stays." In one fluid motion, he hopped up and perched on his chair like a great bird of prey. "But if there are consequences, shouldn't there be rewards."

John looked up and saw the detective's eyes positively glittering at the prospect. "Yeees," the doctor agreed. "I suppose that's only fair. What do you have in mind?"

"I should think... something like what we did yesterday. There are so many possibilities, things I've never told you I wanted to try." Sherlock looked down at the floor, then back up hopefully.

This whole thing had taken on an entirely new shape from how it had started. John thought about it a moment. There was a name for a relationship like this was turning into. There had been that case a couple of years ago... D/s was the term he had learned. "Are you sure you really want to do this? This whole D/s thing?"

The detective blinked, surprised that John had put a name to what was developing between them before he had. "We can try it. If it doesn't work, we'll go back to how it was before. It'll be an experiment." John wouldn't be able to argue with that. It was immensely logical.

"O-kay." John nodded. "We'll do this the whole way. Safe words and all. Green for everything is okay. Yellow for slow down, pause. Red for full stop."

"Agreed, but, John." Sherlock bit his lip. "There may be a problem with your list of consequences." He held up his hand. "Wait. Hear me out. One of them is on my list of things to try as an award."

The doctor blinked, stunned. "Oh." He had a suspicion he knew which item on the list Sherlock was talking about. "Which one is it, babe?"

The detective dropped back down into his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. Glancing at John, he spoke quietly, "Spanking. Over you lap. With your hand."

The blush that crawled up his neck was beautiful and the doctor couldn't help but stare. He also couldn't help imagining how it would feel having Sherlock squirming on his lap.

"You like experiments, obviously." John breathed in shakily, trying to hide his growing excitement. "If this whole thing is an experiment anyway, I want to conduct one of my own." He reached towards Sherlock and beckoned to him. "Come here and take off what little you're wearing. Let's just find out if spanking is a consequence or a reward."

Sherlock undressed, placing his pyjama bottoms and dressing gown on his chair. When he approached John, his cock was already stiffening and his pupils were blown wide.

The doctor pulled him down onto his lap. "You certainly seem to like the idea of a spanking." He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock before flipping him over so that he lay across his lap. John could feel the detective's growing erection against his thigh and that did nothing to quell his own burgeoning arousal. He caressed Sherlock's arse for several moments, feeling his boyfriend relax into his touch, then he drew back his hand and brought it down with an audible smack.

Sherlock gave a jolt at the warm, stinging shock of pain and his cock rubbed against the doctor's leg in wonderful friction. It felt... Fantastic. It wasn't what he had expec- Smack. He wriggled and sought out more pleasure to mix with the pain. By the eighth strike, he was gasping and moaning his pleasure, rocking against John's leg with each blow in a wonderful, satisfying rhythm. He could even feel John's own erection, trapped as it was, pressing into his side. "Yes, John! Harder!"

The doctor had become almost entranced by the way Sherlock responded to each blow. The detective shuddered, rocked against him and panted, clearly wanting more. When he cried out just that, John redoubled his efforts, trying to ignore just how hard he had become by participating in this little exercise. All of a sudden, Sherlock went stiff, gave a great cry, and came. He fucking well came. And from being spanked over John's lap. The doctor thought he might die on the spot from arousal. He lifted Sherlock so that he sat by him on his chair, then he took out his cock and wanked frantically until he achieved his own orgasm. After that, he collapsed back in his chair with the detective.

It was several post orgasmic minutes later that Sherlock said, "I believe that goes on the rewards list. After a moment, they broke out into mad giggles.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock's mobile rang. He ignored it which earned him an annoyed glance from John.

"Aren't you going to answer it?" the doctor asked as he turned the page of his newspaper. "It could be Greg. You've been complaining that your brain is rotting from the dearth of crimes to solve." He dropped the paper to his lap. "Did I just say dearth? God help me, I'm turning into you."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up into an almost smile. "If it's a good case, he'll call y..."

The doctor glared at Sherlock as his own phone began to ring. He pulled it out and answered it after glancing at the screen. "Hello, Greg. Oh, he's here, but you know how he is." John pointed at the detective and mouthed 'rude' at him. Sherlock was completely unbothered. "Yeah. We'll be there in 30 minutes. No problem." He rang off and shook his head. "Try to behave a little better when we get to the Yard. I'd like to avoid the need for consequences if we can."

With a sniff, Sherlock stood. "Your doubt in my ability to behave wounds me." He pulled on his Belstaff, tossed John his coat and led the way out the door.

* * *

Greg looked haggard. He had long since shed his jacket and both sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows. The DI was chewing gum and John could see the edge of a nicotine patch just showing when his left sleeve rode up.

"Thank God you're here," Greg said as John and Sherlock stepped into the situation room. "I don't know what to make of all of this and there's a little boy we've got to find before it's too late." He ran a hand through his silver hair and ruffled it before grasping his neck and squeezing it to relieve the tension.

John started reading over the case notes while Sherlock went immediately to the wall of photographs. From time to time, the detective shot a question at Lestrade, then he went back to examining the photos. After a few minutes, Sherlock walked over to John and took the case file without asking. He flipped through the pages of notes, muttering to himself, then tossed them on the table. Inevitably, Sherlock started pacing. His hands flew through the air as fast as his thoughts flew through his mind. Abruptly, the detective turned and started to leave the room.

"Oi!" Greg called. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Loo, then Barts. There's something I want to check out." He held up an evidence bag that contained several leaves, then he rushed out the door.

John sighed. "I'll give him a few moments, then I'll catch up with him."

"I shouldn't let him take evidence, but we have more than one bag of those leaves." Greg rubbed at his eyes. "No one recognises them. Maybe he can come up with something useful."

"Yeah. I'll make sure His Nibs keeps in touch." John gave Greg a little wave and started after Sherlock.

* * *

27 hours later, Greg's team was on hand to pull a crying six year old out of the old sewers. Next, they pulled out a scraped and bruised Sherlock. It was only worry for him that kept John from running over and shaking the man.

After both the boy and Sherlock had been seen to and the briefest of details given, Greg allowed the detective to go home with the promise to return to the Yard the next morning.  
John walked with Sherlock to the main road where one of Mycroft's cars was waiting to take them home. Once they were seated and on their way back to 221, the doctor took a deep breath and, in his calmest voice, asked, "Are you alright? Really?"

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock looked out the window, dreading what John would say next.

"Good. Good." The doctor crossed his arms. "So that's two, then, though three could be argued."

"John..."

"You lied to us. To me. You said you were going to the loo. In reality you were running off, chasing down a clue..."

Sherlock turned to look at John. "There wasn't time to explain and it was dangerous. I had to keep you safe!"

"You had to keep me safe. What about you? Your life is just as important!" The doctor took a deep breath and calmed himself. He turned to address the little things. "You were rude to Greg when you ignored his call and you were rude to me when you jerked the case file from my hands. That's three things, Sherlock. Three things you promised you wouldn't do." John balled his hands into fists in frustration. He didn't care about Sherlock being rude. He only cared that he could have lost the detective forever. "We'll talk about it later in the flat after you've had a shower."

* * *

Sherlock walked into the living room in his pyjamas and dressing gown, still drying his hair. He flinched when he saw John sat in his chair glaring in his direction.

"John..."

"Please. Be quiet." The doctor sat rubbing his right thigh as though it pained him. "In the past, when you did this type of thing, I would disappear into our room. I never slept well. The nightmares were always bad those nights. I don't expect that last part to change. However, you've given yourself over to me. Don't push me. Don't make me regret this. Go over and stand in the corner until I get myself under control."

Feeling numb, Sherlock dropped the towel on the coffee table, then made his way to the corner. He felt like a fool. After all this time, how had he never observed how his behaviour affected John, especially when he slept right by him. He'd had no idea that his actions had the power to bring on nightmare fuelled sleepless nights. The thought of his beloved struggling with nightmares and hiding the fact from him nearly broke Sherlock's heart.

An indeterminable time later, the detective felt John's hand on his shoulder. He turned around and looked at the doctor, tears staining his face. "I'm s-sorry," Sherlock hiccoughed. "Sorry."

John pulled Sherlock into an embrace. He could see that the apology was genuine, not a simple bit of acting on the detective's part. "Hush, now. I know."

"I don't want you to have nightmares because of me. I never want you to have them."

"I don't want them either, love." John let out a sigh. He decided to get the rest over with so they could sit on the sofa together and comfort one another. "Just a few more things. I've locked you phone and laptop away." Sherlock gave a sniff, but didn't argue. "And you're to stay in the flat for three days." The detective sniffed again and held John tighter. "Don't you have anything to say?" He had expected an argument.

"If you have nightmares, wake me up." Sherlock pulled back and looked at him with pleading eyes. "Don't suffer through them alone. Especially since they're because of me."

"They're not really your fault. I shouldn't have-"

"Wake me anytime you have them. Promise me."

John nodded and together, they sat on the sofa, feeling the comfort of having the other near.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock 'sat' upside down on the sofa. His feet and legs were over him against the wall. His head hung off the sofa cushion so that his curls nearly grazed the floor. "Bored! I'm bored. Bored. Bored. Bored."

"That's easy enough to fix," John noted as he sipped his tea. "I have several chores in mind for you that need doing. Why don't you clean the fireplace out?"

"I don't want to," the detective replied petulantly. "It's boring."

"Oh, you don't have to, but if you don't, I'm adding a day to your punishment and... no spankings for a month."

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock had spun over and stood up. He glared at John, but strode over to the fireplace and looked at it. With a great sigh, he went and got the metal pail and started cleaning it.

"Oh," John added, "if you make a mess of it, it won't just be spankings you'll miss out on."

"You wouldn't!" Sherlock sounded scandalised.… "You would suffer just as much as I would."

"I've got lube, a vibrator and a talented hand. I might even make you watch and not let you touch yourself." John nodded, that sounded like something the detective would hate. Wasn't that the whole point of punishment? It was day three. If only Sherlock would learn his lesson. Right. After one go? Not bloody likely.

The detective turned from his chore at the sound of someone on the stairs. "Mycroft!"

"It doesn't mean that you should stop what you're doing. And keep a civil tongue in your mouth," John warned as the elder Holmes stepped casually into the flat, a folder tucked under his arm.

"John. Sherlock." Mycroft took a seat in his brother's chair without being invited; however, he didn't comment on Sherlock's activities.

"Is there something I can help you with, brother dear?" the detective asked in the least acidic tone he could manage.

"Actually I came to speak with John." The government official twirled his umbrella idly, before locking gazes with John. "As my brother is aware, this flat has been under constant surveillance, both inside and out." He suppressed a smile as the doctor paled. "Don't be alarmed. I'm not here to threaten you."

Sherlock paused in his task. "As if I'd allow it."

"Sherlock," John warned, "behave." He raised his chin and sat straight in his chair. "Then why are you here, Mycroft?"

The British Government leaned forward in his chair. "To reassure you, Doctor Watson. I know how much you care for my brother and I know that you won't ever do anything without his permission. If I thought you would... well, we would be having an entirely different conversation, wouldn't we?"

"Right." John swallowed, but he was more angry than anything. "So, what, we're just supposed to carry on knowing we're being watched. Provide a little peep show for whoever is monitoring the camera feed?"

"Calm down, John. I've had the interior cameras deactivated. They will be removed at the first opportunity." Mycroft gave the doctor a thin smile. "These papers," he handed the folder he had been holding to John, "should be of some interest to the both of you."

The doctor took them, noting that Sherlock had stopped what he was doing and had sat on the hearth. The detective looked at the folder with a mildly surprised expression.

"What's this?" John asked. The papers were legal documents and he didn't want to wade through them.

"You are now sole trustee of Sherlock's trust fund. Manage it wisely. If you should need advice, I will, of course, be glad to provide it if my brother doesn't wish to." Mycroft turned his gaze to Sherlock who met it with a begrudging smile. "As trustee, you will receive a small salary for your troubles." It wasn't small, Mycroft had seen to that.

John immediately shook his head. "No. I can't do this." He tried to hand the papers back.

"Of course you can," the government official disagreed. "It's merely an extension of what you're already doing."

"It's money! It's too much money!" John had no idea how much, but he knew it was more than he could manage.

"John," Sherlock said quietly. "You can do it. I'll help. If you would prefer, accept Mycroft's offer of assistance."

The doctor's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Alright. But no salary." Both Mycroft and Sherlock merely stared at him. "I'm not going to take money for doing this. It feels too much like a bribe to stay with Sherlock and I don't need one for that."

The detective got up on his knees and dusted himself off, then crawled over to kneel in front of John. "Alright. No salary. On one condition."

John looked at him warily. "What's that?"

"Marry me?" Sherlock asked, taking the other two men completely by surprise.

John sat, stunned, looking at his boyfriend who was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, covered in soot, kneeling at his feet and waiting for an answer. He completely forgot Mycroft was there. "Do you mean that?"

"Would I have asked it if I didn't?" the detective asked with a hint of his usual acerbic tone.

John gave a little laugh, then slipped off his chair and onto the floor. "Of course I will." He hugged the sooty detective, then kissed him. Deeply and with passion. After a few long, drawn out moments, he pulled back as he was reminded of Mycroft's presence by the government official's clearing of his throat. With a blush, John let his now-fiance go and climbed back into his chair.

Sherlock turned and leaned back against John's legs, feeling smug. He wasn't a bit bothered by his brother's knowing look. In fact, he was so pleased with himself that he failed to notice how pleased Mycroft looked.

As Sherlock's spouse, John would receive half of the trust. Mycroft didn't care about the money as long as his brother was cared for and looked after. Let Sherlock think he had tricked them both. What would it hurt? "Congratulations Sherlock. John. I shall leave you to celebrate in peace." He gathered his umbrella and, sketching a mock bow, strode out of the flat.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "So we're engaged now."

"Yep."

"Don't think this gets you out of cleaning the fireplace." John leaned forward and kissed him behind the ear.

Sherlock tipped his head back. "You can't be serious?!"

"I can and I am. You've already made a decent start of it and you're all sooty anyway." The doctor kissed his forehead. "If you do a good job of it, I might be persuaded to help you get clean... as a reward for being such a good boy whilst your brother was here."

Sherlock scampered back to the fireplace. "Be warned, I'm very dirty, John. Very, very dirty."


End file.
